The Lazarus Murders
by IceCream386
Summary: It's been months since John last saw Sherlock, and he's beginning to worry that they've lost touch. Meanwhile, with no cases to solve, Sherlock Holmes is becoming increasingly frustrated and longs for a murder. But he might want to be careful what he wishes for. WARNING: Major character death.
1. Chapter 1

**Discla****imer:** I own nothing.

**A/N:** I'm slightly nervous about posting this. I've tried to write Sherlock's deductions realistically but, not possessing the genius of Moffat and Gatiss (or of course that of the great Arthur Conan Doyle), I think I might have failed. I hope, despite its shortcomings, this makes an enjoyable read. If you have the time, please leave a review to let me know what you think of it.

"Sherlock, John's here to see you," Mrs. Hudson called.

It was nearly the afternoon but Sherlock was still in his pyjamas. He was lounging on the couch, that Saturday morning, a blue satin dressing gown flung around his shoulders. He didn't look up when John came in.

"Hello," said John. "Anyone home?"

Sherlock simply sat there without replying. His eyes were shut and his hands, pushed together, were resting under his chin. Suddenly, without warning, his eyes shot open and he jumped up from his chair, letting out an exasperated cry.

"Oh well. Hello again. I'm fine, thanks for asking," said John.

Sherlock turned and stared at him for a few seconds before speaking. "There's no case, John. I've been bored out of my mind with nothing to do."

"Yes, and I've come over to visit you to see how you were." He paused, watching as Sherlock started to pace the room agitatedly. "Guess I've got my answer."

"No case in months," Sherlock growled. "What is London doing? Is no one murdering anyone anymore?"

"You know, you could stop saying those things so you sounded just a bit more like human being," said John.

Sherlock whirled round. "So, when are you moving house?"

"What? How did you...Oh, right. No we're not doing this again." John shook his head to emphasise his point.

"I'm not doing anything at all. Simply pointing out what I observe," said Sherlock. The ghost of a self-satisfied smirk flickered over his face.

"How did you -"

"The sole of your shoe has cement on it. Since it's unlikely you've been at a building site recently, you must have been plastering walls. You aren't very good at any form of DIY, so it's not a favour that you've done for someone else. Therefore, you are working on your own house.

Your house isn't in bad repair, so why would you be plastering it? You must have a good reason to be so careful. It obviously wasn't a small job. If it had been, you wouldn't have any on your shoe. The fact that you haven't changed your shoes suggests that you want to do it quickly, so it's probable that you don't have much time in between your repairs and the sale of your house."

Sherlock paused for a moment. "There's also your watch, of course," he said.

"My watch?" John let out an infuriated sigh. When Sherlock didn't respond he said, "Oh, just tell me, Sherlock."

"Well, it's at the wrong time. It's out by nearly an hour. The fact that you haven't noticed this suggests that you are under some considerable stress. One of the greatest minor stressors is moving house. This added to the evidence of the cement suggests that you're moving house. Of course there's also the fact - "

"Okay, okay. Enough. I get the picture. Clearly, you've been missing the chance to amaze with your deduction skills," John said crabbily. He checked his watch. Sure, enough it read eleven o'clock. Checking the new clock hanging on the living room wall - Mrs. Hudson must have bought that, as Sherlock would never have bothered - he saw that it was nearly twelve. "And now I know that I need to change my watch. Thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock slinked back over to his armchair and sank back into it. His smirk was replaced by a rather glum expression.

John frowned. "Why don't you come and visit me and Mary? After we've moved house that is," he asked casually.

"John, it's really not worth the inconvenience it would cause," Sherlock replied, stretching out his legs so that they pointed straight out in the air.

"Oh, really? Who's it inconvenient for? You?"

"Obviously," said Sherlock seriously.

"I think Mary would like it if you came and saw us more often. I certainly would."

"Err...no, that's not true," said Sherlock carelessly. He sat up straighter and let his feet fall, so that they were placed firmly on the ground.

John sighed. "And why's that, Sherlock? Not that I really want to know."

"The last time I saw her, she tried everything she possibly could to keep us apart. Her body language was jealous and it was defensive whenever I approached you. She put up a physical barrier around you, particularly when I was around, which also of course means that she is concerned about whether or not you are being faithful - "

"Okay, Sherlock! I get it!" John shouted. "I'd forgotten how INFURIATING you can be!"

Sherlock looked genuinely puzzled. "You did ask, John. I was merely answering your question."

John laughed. "You don't get it, do you?"

"You're impatient to leave," Sherlock said. Well that had come out of nowhere. And it wasn't a question; it was stated as though it were a fact.

"No, I'm not." John dug his hands into his pockets and shifted on his feet.

"You haven't sat down, John. You don't like to stand. You prefer to sit. That suggests you're anxious not to prolong this visit."

John looked at Sherlock, trying to work out where this was coming from. He didn't look hurt or angry. In fact, his face was pretty much expressionless.

"Well, you've ditched my seat, so what do you expect? Where am I supposed to sit? Over on the sofa?"

"Hmm..." Sherlock was pressing his fingers against the sides of his temples. It was something he did when was he was going to his 'mind palace'.

"You aren't even bloody listening are you?"

Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes, his hands dropping back to his side. "What were we talking about?"

"We were talking about what you did to my damn seat," said John grumpily.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said vaguely. "I already told you. I couldn't see through to the kitchen with it there. It was an inconvenience, so I got rid of it." A pause. "Sorry, did you want it for some reason?"

"No, of course not. I don't care about the damn chair. I just...Sherlock, I don't want us to fall out of touch. You're my friend, much as I regret the day I realised that. I want things to stay the same. I haven't seen you for months, for God's sake." John stopped himself from saying more, waited for a reaction.

"I haven't had any cases for months. There's been no reason for you to be here, " said Sherlock coldly.

"Sorry, Sherlock. Did you miss the word 'friend'? I'm not just here to help you solve your bloody cases. I'm your friend!"

Sherlock didn't look at him, seeming to prefer to give the floor his attention.

"Look, Sherlock, if you're not going to say anything then what am I supposed to do? You don't talk to me for months. Half the time, I didn't even know where you were. I tried to visit before, you know. You weren't in, and Mrs. Hudson said she didn't know where you were. Don't tell me I've not fulfilled my half of the friendship. I've done bloody loads to keep in touch with you!"

John knew that he had been shouting all of this and, although it didn't do any good to shout at Sherlock, it did feel good. Yes, it felt good to let out all the anger, frustration and hurt that he'd been feeling over the past couple of months.

Still, Sherlock said nothing. "Right, I'll just go, shall I? God, Sherlock, you could at least give me an answer."

At that moment, his phone rang. It was Mary. "I'd better...take this," he blurted out, before wandering into the kitchen.

"Hi,_" _said Mary's voice.

"Hi, Mary. Why are you calling? What's up?"

Mary laughed nervously. "Oh, nothing much. Just calling to see if you could arrange for a plasterer to come and do things up."

"Oh, Mary. I said I'd do the job," said John wearily.

"I know. I know and I'm sorry. You've been great, but I think a professional should finish things off. Do you...think you could arrange it?'"

"Right, sure, Mary. Of course. I'll get onto it."

"Okay," Mary said brightly. "I'll let you go now. Bye."

"Bye, gorgeous. I'll see you later."

He hung up and went back into the living room, where he found Sherlock – now considerably more alert – typing busily on his laptop.

"Considered anything I said there?"

Sherlock didn't answer, continuing to type. Whatever he was doing, he was clearly engrossed. There wasn't much point trying to talk to him when he was like this, John reasoned.

He crossed over and sat down on Sherlock's armchair. An untouched cup of tea lay on the coffee table. Picking it up, he took a sip. He grimaced. It was cold and had stewed.

Suddenly, Sherlock slammed his laptop shut and jumped up."Nothing!" he screamed.

"Okay," said John. "I think there might have been a few people on the other side of the world who missed that."

"What? Oh..." Sherlock tilted his head curiously, looking at John. "Comfortable?" he asked.

"What?" John was puzzled. Then he realised. "Oh, yeah. Your chair is rather comfy. I never knew before. I used to have my own, you see." John was starting wonder at himself. Why did that one little gesture bother him so much?

"I can...give it to you, if that would be preferable."

"No." John looked away, and he could feel Sherlock's eyes on him. "I don't want the old thing. Just surprised you could be bothered to move it. That's all."

"Mrs. Hudson moved it." Again, Sherlock was perfectly serious. He paced a few times, scratching his head. "If only I had a case!"

"Well...I'm sure you'll get one soon," said John. "Maybe I should just head off."

"Yes, yes, whatever." Sherlock waved his hand.

"Maybe we should meet at the cafe. You know, grab a coffee or something?" John said hopefully.

"Yes." Sherlock was fidgeting with his hair again.

"Okay. Meet at half five?"

"Of course." Sherlock sat down at the laptop and drummed his fingers.

"Well, bye," said John awkwardly.

"Goodbye, John." Sherlock had opened the laptop again and had his brow furrowed in concentration as he looked at the screen. Whatever he was looking at, it interested him more than this conversation.

John called it quits and left.

At five-thirty (on the dot), John found himself sitting in the cafe just next to 221B Baker Street, where they'd arranged to meet. He had ordered a pot of tea, and took a small sip from his teacup. It was good: hot, fresh and just strong enough.

He checked his phone – no texts. That was just typical, he thought. Sherlock never bothered to let anyone else know what was going. He'd just gone and left John in the lurch again. Where the hell was he?

He drummed his fingers on the table. The waitress walked by and flashed him a smile. He smiled back and then checked his phone again. There was no point in doing that really. If Sherlock – or anyone else, for that matter – had texted, he would have heard a text alert.

What was keeping him? He'd probably forgotten that they were supposed to be meeting in the first place. Or maybe Mycroft had dragged away on some urgent mission to save London from an imminent terrorist attack, all in the space of one afternoon. He smiled at the thought.

Ten minutes or so later, his mobile rang. It was Sherlock.

"Sherlock, where the hell are you?" John said, before waiting for him to say anything.

"John, I'm sorry. I can't talk."

"Well, okay," said John, somewhat mollified by the fact that Sherlock had bothered to call. "What's going on?"

"I've got a case!" Sherlock sounded positively gleeful, and John could just imagine his delighted expression – totally oblivious, as always, to the fact that someone had died.

"Good for you," said John. "Can I come and see – "

"Sorry, John. I've got to go." With that, the line went dead.

John sighed. He couldn't even be bothered to be annoyed about things like this anymore. He finished off his tea, paid the bill and got a taxi home.

Just as he got in the door, Mary called to him.

"Hi, John." She bustled out to the hall, wearing an apron. She had a little flour on her nose. John smiled. Obviously she'd been baking.

"Hi." He gave her a kiss. He indicated her apron. "I'm guessing you've been baking."

She widened her eyes and smiled. "Yeah, I just thought I'd give it a go. It's a bit of a practice for our little one's birthday."

She put her arms around his waist. "Lucy's agreed to babysit her for the evening. I thought we could go out."

"A night out sounds good," John replied, slipping his arms around her waist reciprocally.

"Yeah, no offence, but you look like you need it more than me." She laughed and gave him a kiss before turning. She sniffed. "Do you smell burning?" She asked.

Her widened and, without waiting for an answer, she ran to the kitchen. John couldn't help but laugh.

"Stop it!" she called from the kitchen. Then a second later, he heard her shouting, "Oh God! It's ruined!"

He came to the kitchen and found her standing over a blacked cake. He noticed that she still had her oven gloves on her hands.

She looked. "I don't know whether to laugh or cry," she moaned. "This is my third attempt."

"Well, it...doesn't look that bad," John lied. "I mean, it's just a bit over-done."

"Try as black as coal!"

"Mary," said John gently. "It's alright." He put his hands on her shoulders. "Now I think you've just been getting a bit too stressed lately. Go and relax. I'll tidy this up."

Mary's shoulders slumped. "Are you sure you're okay with that? You don't have to. I should really. I mean, I made the mess."

"Yeah, but you've been doing enough today. Come on. Go and put your feet up."

She looked doubtful.

"I'm serious. Go!" he said.

She grinned. "You're a star! I'm so lucky!"

"Don't you forget it," he said playfully. "You have an amazing husband. Now go and see what's on the TV."

"I'll just go and check on Beth first," she said and, after giving him a quick kiss, she left the kitchen.

The mess proved not to be as bad as it looked, and John finished it all in about twenty minutes. He went to find Mary in the living room. She was sitting watching some game show or other.

"When's Lucy coming to pick up Beth?" he asked.

"Oh, at seven," said Mary. She checked her watch. "About an hour from now."

"She'll be pretty easy to babysit," said John confidently. "She sleeps all the time, doesn't she?"

"She won't be like that for long. Hope you're prepared for a lot of sleepless nights."

"Yeah," said John grimly. "She's beauty, isn't she?"

By way of reply, Mary just smiled, and John noticed her eyes were a little wet.

Making sure Lucy had everything she needed to take care of Beth had taken longer than they'd planned. Still, they arrived at the restaurant at eight o'clock. As they hadn't booked, service had been a little delayed. Eventually, though, they were shown to their table and the waiter produced two menus.

"What do you want?" John said.

"Hmm...Don't know. The chicken sounds good. What're you thinking?" She bit her lip in thought.

"I love it when you do that," said John suggestively.

Mary looked up, surprised. "What?"

"When you bite your lip...I love it."

Mary's cheeks flushed ever so slightly. "Oh, it's going to be that kind of evening is it?"

"What do you mean by that?" said John.

"Oh, you know. You flattering me so you can" – she lowered her voice – "get me into bed."

John smiled lasciviously. "But I don't need to flatter you. Remember? I know you're going home with me."

"If you start being this cheeky I might reconsider," Mary teased.

"Who's being cheeky?" said John innocently. Then he was serious. "You look beautiful, Mary – really." He reached over the table and took both her hands.

"You're looking pretty handsome yourself, mister." Suddenly she smiled. "Hey," she whispered. "You don't reckon Sherlock's going to turn out to be our waiter, do you?"

John sniggered. "Complete with the pencilled on moustache."

Mary giggled. "That was terrible, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, mind you it wasn't worse than the one I was sporting at the time."

Mary burst out laughing. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth. "We've got to quieten down," she said looking around.

"Sorry." John cleared his throat and his laughter died down into chuckles.

The waiter appeared at the table. "Are you ready to order?" he asked.

John felt a smile that threatened to turn into a laugh, but he straightened his face and said, "Yes, I'll have the...err...fish please."

"And for you?" The waiter turned to Mary.

"Oh, I'll have the chicken."

"And to drink?"

John knew what was coming next. "What do you recommend?" he asked.

The waiter answered by suggesting a few varieties that John couldn't even hope to pronounce. They settled for picking the cheapest one. Promising the wait would not be long, the waiter left.

"So, about the plasterer," Mary began, but John interrupted her.

"Can we not talk about things like that?" he asked. "It's just...I want a chance to just relax."

"Yeah, absolutely. Sorry."

"Don't apologise."

Around ten minutes later, the meal arrived.

"Enjoy," said waiter.

"Lovely. Thank you," said John. The waiter smiled and left.

"Smells nice." Mary smiled and began her meal. "Mmm...tastes amazing." She nodded toward his plate. "Tuck in."

His mobile rang before he even had a chance to pick up his cutlery. It was Lestrade. Why was he phoning? "Can I take this?"

Mary nodded. "Go ahead."

"Hello," he said, confused as to why Lestrade would be phoning him now. Was it something to do with this case that Sherlock was working on?

"Hello, is this John Watson?" came Lestrade's voice from over the line.

"Of course it's me. You know it's me. What's going on?"

Lestrade paused a little before replying. "Well, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, John, but it's bad news."

John started to panic. He could see Mary frowning at him in concern. "What's wrong?" he said.

"Well, there's no easy way to tell you this, but I'm afraid Mrs. Hudson has been found dead.


	2. Chapter 2

John 's phone fell out of his hand. He could hear Lestrade saying something else over the line, but he didn't register any of it. Mrs. Hudson was...dead? This couldn't be real. This wasn't happening. He'd go to 221B Baker Street and this would turn out to all have been a dream – some horrible nightmare.

He realised someone was talking to him, shaking him to try and rouse him.

"John. John, what's wrong?" It was Mary. She was looking into his eyes, her brow knitted in concern. "John, are you okay. Talk to me. What's happened?"

He tried to get the words out, but something was stopping him. It was like a clamp had been fitted onto his mouth which prevented him from talking. He felt his heart pumping. He was shaking, now. He became aware that several people in the restaurant had turned to look at them.

Enough. He needed to get away from them, from that sea of eyes gazing at him. He jumped up from his chair and bolted to the men's room, without looking at Mary.

Once inside, he splashed his face with cold water and looked in the mirror. His hands went to his mouth. He felt sick. He raced to one of the cubicles and hung his head over the toilet bowl. After a few minutes, he sank down onto the floor, realising he was shaking. He dragged the back of his hand over his mouth and sat there panting.

Breathing in and out slowly – that was the technique he used on patients when they were having a panic attack. He used it now. Gradually, the shaking stopped and he was able to gather his thoughts.

Mrs. Hudson was dead. He didn't want to believe that; he wasn't sure it was true. But that was what he'd been told, so he needed to find out more.

Standing shakily, he unlocked the cubicle and staggered to the door. A mix of sympathetic and puzzled expressions greeted him. He found his way over to Mary. She was looking around wildly, trying to find him. When she saw him her face flooded with relief, then changed when she saw the state he was in.

"Ma...Mary," he mumbled feebly. She sat him down and the table and rubbed his back soothingly.

"It's okay, John. Take your time." She stroked his back and let himself relax against her touch. After a pause of what seemed to him to be only thirty seconds, she spoke.

"For God's sake, John! Tell me what's wrong."

"It's...they've found Mrs Hudson." The world around him started to blur, and he realised he was crying. Tears started falling and sobs racked his body. "She...she's gone, Mary. She..." He was blubbering now, and anything he said was just unintelligible.

"Let's get outside, John."

Mary led him to the door wordlessly, and they stepped out into the frosty night. Turning to face him, she put her hands on his shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. She spoke to him calmly. "John, tell me what's happened."

Somehow he managed to speak. "They...they've found her...She's dead."

Mary turned white. "God..." she said. "How...What happened?"

John swallowed. "I don't know." Frost was biting at his ears – they were beginning to hurt. He hadn't reckoned on it being this cold.

"John, I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say." She bit her lip and put her arm around his shoulder.

He sank down onto the steps just outside the restaurant and she followed him. "I guess I'm still in shock." He was surprised at how clinical he sounded.

"That's to be expected."

"Mary, I need to go and find out what's happened. I need to see him. Why would Lestrade tell me that?"

"It was Lestrade that told you?"

"Yes," said John numbly. He barely noticed how cold the stone step was, but he noticed enough to take his mind off things for a few precious seconds. He felt the warmth of Mary's hand covering his own. She gave it a squeeze.

"I need to go to Baker Street," said John suddenly.

Mary nodded. "We can get a taxi," she said.

She pulled him up from the step, and they descended the stairs together. There were already a few waiting taxis stationed outside.

"This one," she said, indicating one of them. They climbed in. Mary gave the driver the instructions; John was too muddled to comprehend them.

On the journey, John did nothing but think. What had happened? How had whatever had happened happened? And what would Sherlock think? Sherlock. Did he even know what had happened. Thoughts jumbled round in his head – wild random theories – but none of them made any sense.

The taxi ride seemed to take forever, but they arrived. When John saw 221B, he almost screamed.

A whole section of the street had been cordoned off, with barricade tape. He'd seen it all a million times before but, seeing it now, it felt utterly alien and out of place.

He ran up the street, Mary clutching his hand, but was stopped by a police officer.

"Excuse me, sir," he said holding out a restraining arm. "I'm afraid I can't allow you to pass. This is the scene of a crime."

_The scene of a crime. _"Oh God..."

Mary tried to explain. "Officer, this is John Watson. He knows – "

She was cut off by Lestrade's familiar voice. "It's alright, Fleming. I know him. You can let him through."

The police nodded, with an apology for his mistake that John didn't wait to hear.

Mary gave his hand another squeeze before he ran up and lifted the barricade tape. Lestrade regarded him with a sympathetic look.

"I'm afraid it ain't pretty," he said.

"I can take it," said John. Somehow he felt calmer knowing the truth.

Lestrade led him wordlessly up the stairs. Once at the top, they entered the living room, where Sherlock was leaning over a body – presumably Mrs Hudson's. He was doing his usual examination and all that that involved: sniffing, lifting clothes, looking through a magnifying glass. He was very intent on these activities and clearly hadn't noticed that John had come in.

John couldn't believe what he was seeing. How could Sherlock bear it? How could he bear to look at her so closely, examine her, knowing she was dead, knowing that only a few hours ago he'd seen her alive.

After several minutes spent in his meticulous endeavours, Sherlock rose from his work and looked up. He spotted John instantly. His mouth had opened to speak, but not words came out. He shut it.

Without Sherlock obscuring the view, John was able to see Mrs. Hudson for the first time.

She lay on her stomach, near the window. As a doctor, he was used to blood, but the sight of her made him feel sick. She was dressed in a beige coat, one he'd seen her in countless times. The back of it was covered in blood. Presumably, that was where she'd been stabbed or shot.

"What do you make of it, Sherlock?" said Lestrade. John was amazed. This seemed like some alternate universe. How could everyone just be going on as normal.

"You don't have anything to go on." Lestrade continued.

"I wouldn't say that." Sherlock was narrowing his eyes contemptuously.

John glanced around the room. Donovan and Anderson were, he decided, looking remarkably awkward. He tried to lock eyes with Sherlock, but he avoided John's gaze.

"So what have you found?" Lestrade asked.

"Notice how one arm on her coat is significantly dryer than the other. She didn't have an umbrella. It isn't a coincidence. That means she was walking arm in arm with someone. Their arm protected hers from getting wet.

She doesn't show any signs of resistance, so she wasn't taken by surprise. That rules out the possibility of it being a stranger or someone hiding in the house. No, it was someone she knew and trusted, the person she was walking with on the street. They came in with her and they killed her before she realised what was happening.

Judging by the area of her body covered, it was a man of considerable height. Could be a woman but, statistically, it's more probable that it's a man. It's probable they were intimate, considering the close proximity from which she was stabbed. It suggests a close embrace, which would explain how he concealed the weapon."

This was all said remarkably fast, and Sherlock barely paused for breath throughout. Lestrade carefully noted everything he said.

"Now of course the _real_ question is, what man would she trust in that way?"

"Who?" said Lestrade dumbly.

"Good. You're asking the right questions now."

John caught his eye for a second, but Sherlock quickly looked away.

That was the straw that broke that camel's back. John snapped. "HAS EVERYONE HERE GONE BLOODY INSANE?" he shouted. "MRS. HUDSON IS DEAD AND ALL YOU CAN TALK ABOUT ARE BLOODY MURDER THEORIES!"

The silence was deafening. Donovan, Anderson looked as though they wanted the ground to swallow them up. Lestrade looked a little sheepish. Sherlock...well, he just looked like Sherlock – the same as always really.

"Are you all total machines?" said John. He wasn't shouting anymore. In fact, it was closer to a whisper.

"No, John," said Lestrade gently. "We've just got a job to do."

"No, I understand you lot. But Sherlock..." He trailed off.

Sherlock simply looked at him blankly.

"Sherlock, can I speak to you?" said John curtly.

All eyes were on Sherlock. He raised his eyebrows, then nodded at John and followed him out of the flat.

"Sherlock," said John slowly. "I'm not going to get angry with you. I just need to know what the HELL you're doing. Mrs. Hudson is lying there dead and all you can think about...God, Sherlock are you some kind of robot?"

Sherlock blinked a couple of times. He was silent for a few moments. "Lestrade wanted my help. He's lost yet again. Without forensic evidence, it seems, the police are hopeless. I am offering him my services despite being on another case and – "

"What the hell, Sherlock?" John cut in. "I don't care about all that crap. I want to know why you don't seem to give a flying fuck that Mrs Hudson is lying dead in your flat."

Sherlock obviously hadn't been expecting that. He looked surprised. "Of course I care. I'm extremely interested. Haven't I just been talking to you about it?"

"I'm not talking about that kind of caring. I'm talking about the – oh, I don't know – the human kind of caring. You know, the one where you're actually BOTHERED when your landlady is FOUND DEAD!" He banged his fist on the stair banister.

"Is that all, John?" said Sherlock coldly. "Because I'm busy." His hands were held behind his back. He looked...composed. He didn't even have a hair out of place.

"Is that all?" John repeated. "You're busy? How can you say things like?" He balled his hand into a fist. Something in him really wanted to punch Sherlock right now.

Sherlock actually took a couple of steps back, as though he were expecting some kind of confrontation. "I'll take that as a yes," he said and, turning on his heel, he walked back into the flat.

Knowing he couldn't bear another second in there, John went outside and found Mary, waiting nearby. She looked so worried. After Sherlock's alien coldness , it was refreshing to see someone react so humanly. It assured him that he wasn't the crazy one.

"Hey," she said comfortingly, taking him by the arm. "I've phoned Lucy and told her about what's happened. She's said she can take Beth for the night, if that makes things easier."

"Tell her thanks."

Mary's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, John."

Without another word, he pulled her into a tight embrace. They stood like that for a while, just wordlessly comforting each other. Then, they got in the taxi and went home.

**xxx**

Sleep didn't come to John that night. The heavy patter of rain on the roof didn't help. He'd been lying there for hours, just listening to it – trying to find some comfort in its rhythm, trying to forget the events of that night.

When morning light gradually streamed through the window, brighter and brighter, John had been awake for hours. Restlessly, he rose and padded to the kitchen to make some coffee.

As the kettle boiled, Mary came into the kitchen. She was yawning, and she looked as though she were still pretty tired. "Lucy's going to come round with Beth around eleven," she said wearily.

"Good. Tell her thanks for everything," he said. "Coffee?" he added, and she nodded gratefully.

For a while, they just sat at the table drinking coffee, saying nothing. John reached for her hand, and she slipped it into his.

John broke the silence. "I'll need to find out what the funeral arrangements will be." He was surprised how calm he felt.

"Yes, of course." Mary nodded. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying. She swallowed. "John, I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"Don't apologise."

"Okay. I won't."

They sat and finished their coffee in silence. Then John got up and said, "Right, I'm getting a shower." He gave Mary and kiss and went to get ready.

Somehow the hot water – really hot, he'd made sure – pouring over him cleared his head a little. It focused him, and with that focus came anger.

He wasn't angry that Mrs. Hudson was dead. He wasn't angry that he hadn't had a chance to say a proper goodbye. He wasn't even angry that some scumbag had killed. No, he was angry with Sherlock. He was angry that Sherlock didn't seem to care that she'd died. Because how could anyone – even Sherlock – be such a robot?

He got dressed in a rush, his mind not really paying any attention to what he was picking. Pulling on a shirt and trousers, he ran a comb through his hair at lightning speed. He shrugged on his jacket and was ready.

He came back into the dining room, where Mary was tapping her empty cup of coffee with her fingers. "Mary, I've got to go out."

"Okay. Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?"

"No, Mary...I think I should do this on my own...I..." He stopped, struggling to explain.

Mary nodded understandingly. "Okay. Just call me if you need me." She reached and took his hand in hers for a second, then let go. "Bye," she said.

He took a walk (en route to the park nearby), trying to decide what to do. He could call Lestrade and find out what was happening, or he could try and talk to Sherlock. There was a slim chance of getting any reply, but John felt like he should speak to him – try and straighten a few things out.

The fresh air cleared his head, and he began to realise that he shouldn't have said some of the things he'd said last night. After all, Sherlock had to be grieving too. Right? Though it certainly hadn't seemed that way.

He took out his phone, scrolled his way down until he found Sherlock. Should he call him? It was worth a shot, he decided.

No one answered for what felt like ages. Finally, though someone, presumably Sherlock, picked up.

"Hello," said John a little tentatively.

"Hello." It was Sherlock sure enough.

"Err...could we maybe...Look, Sherlock, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry about last night. It was the shock. I shouldn't have taken it out on you." He waited.

There was no response for what felt like ages. Finally, Sherlock spoke. "What are you apologising for, John?" His voice was distinctly cold.

"For being rude to you. For shouting at you. It was unnecessary and I'm sorry. I just wanted to know if we could talk."

"About what?" said Sherlock.

"About what's happened. This is a time we should be pulling together. Mrs. Hudson..." His voice cracked. He'd been going to say that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have wanted them to fight. Somehow he just couldn't finish that sentence. Who was he to say what she wouldn't or wouldn't have wanted anyway?

"John, I'm busy. What is it that you want?" said Sherlock curtly. His voice was as cold and emotionless as ever. If he'd noticed the crack in John's voice he wasn't showing it.

John decided to try another angle. "Sherlock, are you working on this case?"

"Yes."

"Well, you know how you were saying we didn't have a case to work on? Well, we do now." John hoped that didn't sound as callous as he felt saying it.

"I said _I_ didn't have a case," Sherlock corrected sharply.

"Yeah, alright. Sorry," said John. "But I could help out, couldn't I?"

"If you like." There was no enthusiasm in his voice.

"Okay, Sherlock. Why don't I come and see you now? Where are you?"

"I'm staying next door at Mrs. Turner's."

John wondered if that were entirely healthy, staying right next to where it had all happened. He thought better of commenting on it, though. "Is that where you stayed last night?"

"Obviously."

"Right. I'm going to be there in..." John checked his watch. "About twenty minutes."

Sherlock didn't reply, and the line went dead. That didn't exactly make him feel welcome, but he made his way there anyway. He didn't get a taxi. It would have taken too long, and he needed the fresh air.

Arriving in Baker Street, he saw the familiar barricade tape still in place, and he made his way up to Mrs. Turner's. One knock on the door, and she opened. When she saw him, her face crumpled.

"Hello, John," she said. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she was clutching a tissue.

"Hello, Mrs. Turner."

He reached out and patted her on the shoulder in an attempt to comfort. She sniffed gratefully.

"I'm here to see Sherlock," he said.

"Oh." She pointed him upstairs. "It's a terrible thing," she added. "To see her taken from us so soon and in such an awful way. I hope they catch the scoundrel that did it." She looked like she might be in danger of crying again and, without waiting for a reply, she scuttled away quickly.

Sighing, John made his way upstairs and knocked on the door. There was no reply, so he knocked again. There was no reply this time either, so he decided to just barge in.

He found Sherlock sitting at a laptop, tying very rapidly, a confused expression gracing his features. He bit his lip in concentration.

"Didn't hear me then," John commented. He shifted on his feet, feeling more than a little awkward.

Sherlock said nothing.

"This how it's going to be then? Us not talking to each other?" He crossed over to the sofa and sat down. Opened out on it were several newspapers. They were all turned to the same story: reports on Mrs. Hudson's apparent murder. Clearly, Sherlock had been busy.

Studying him, he noticed that there were shadows under his eyes and he looked pale from lack of sleep. He'd probably been up all night working on it. Perhaps that was his way of coping with things.

John picked up one of the newspapers casually, having no intention of actually reading it. He didn't the gruesome way it was being reported – in horrid, gratuitous detail.

"Sherlock, why are you not talking to me? I know you're busy, but could you just say something?"

Sherlock looked up from his work. "You want to know about the case?" _The case_. That was a cold.

"Yeah." John abandoned any pretence of even looking at the newspaper and put it back down on the coffee table.

"Well, initially it hardly seemed to be worth my time, as though even the imbeciles at Scotland Yard could solve it without my intervention."

John was amazed at how coldly Sherlock seemed to be able to talk about it.

"But this morning something of interest came to my attention," he continued.

What's that?"

"Well," said Sherlock. "It would appear our killer is a ghost."


End file.
